Transition State
by mousers mary
Summary: 1960's Dan-Rorschach partnership era. At the close of an otherwise routine patrol, Rorschach contemplates boundaries. part 2: Rorschach does his creepy stalker thing.
1. Chapter 1

. . .

"…Okay, so I know you don't exactly _approve _of that sort of thing, but really. It was just the one time. And it _was_ during college_. _So, you know."

Daniel waits a beat, coughs nervously.

Behind his mask, Rorschach narrows his eyes.

Dawn will be here soon. Rorschach mistrusts this time of day more than any other. One can never be sure of anything here, and Rorschach likes to be sure. Likes to know where the lines are, where everything and everyone _stand_. He takes a certain amount of comfort in the knowledge that there are two worlds with which to contend; the nighttime world of the human cockroaches and lowlifes of the criminal world, and the day-time world of productive society. There is a clear delineation marking out night and day, good and evil, mask and man. Twilight blurs this, corrupts it, changes it. Makes the world so much more _gray_. Rorschach hates this time of day.

Daniel takes advantage of this space most nights to expound on something or other, usually some tale stemming from his personal life. Despite all his protests and resistance, all his insistence that the wall separating their lives remain firmly in place, Daniel has an infuriatingly uncanny way of chipping away at the barriers in just the right way. It must be an effective tactic, because lately Rorschach finds he is that much more tolerant of the behavior. Tonight, however, Rorschach has mostly tuned Daniel out. The man had been talking for a full four city blocks now. Rorschach had spent most of that time inward—mentally reviewing information learned, crossing off leads that went nowhere, connecting lines and dots to see whatever patterns he could discern— and just pushed Daniel's jabbering aside as mere white noise. He'd been more consciously aware of the motion of Daniel's hands, talking with them in that way he does_. _It's _distracting. _It's not as though Rorschach doesn't appreciate whatever his partner has to say, —Rorschach values his partner's sharp mind immensely—it's simply a matter of not really wanting to hear another one of the man's college era anecdotes. These stories always make him feel… uncomfortable. Sometimes walls and borders don't divide they way they should. Sometimes they create imbalances, too.

Rorschach faces Daniel in response, body language harsh and deliberate. Disapproving. Rorschach knows Daniel expects this response from him; he has made enough noise during the course of their partnership to inform the man where he stands on many an issue. Maybe it isn't fair to use their philosophical differences in this way, but Rorschach sees an advantage. Daniel's body language tightens in predictable Pavlovian response. Rorschach hopes Daniel doesn't see through the ruse and call his bluff; he has no idea just what confessed youthful transgression has earned such imagined condemnation.

"No. I don't know," Rorschach grumbles out. He takes a small measure of satisfaction at that. It sounds like the castigation Daniel expects, and yet it is the honest truth. He doesn't know. Whatever the nature of his partner's late night—technically pre-dawn—confession, whatever depravity from the man's obviously misspent youth, Rorschach would really rather _not _know.

They silently round the corner into another non-descript alleyway.

Then there is a broad hand on his chest. Daniel pushes him bodily against a grimy brick wall before tapping his index finger against his lips. He then shifts to position his own body flat against the wall. Their shoulders press firmly together, and Rorschach files this contact as 'solidarity.'

A strong odor dances toward them, a pungent, woody smell. One Rorschach recognizes at once as the illicit substance often associated with a certain type of youth; those unwashed, disgusting, lazy freeloaders wishing to live off the labors of normal, hard working men while all the while biting the hands that feed them. Nothing less than shameful, immature hedonism.

Daniel removes his goggles in one easy sweep. Before Rorschach can protest, they have been pushed into his hands.

"I promise not to look." There is a playfulness there. It's _trying_. Why can't the man ever take anything seriously?

He ignores it, just nods. He shifts away from Daniel, positions himself in just the right angle. Secure, he lifts his mask enough to accommodate the eyewear.

Daniel pointedly looks off to the middle distance.

The whole world is illuminated. The corridor becomes longer and wider, and everything is clear as day. Daniel is fidgeting now, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Rorschach intends to give a sharp glare, but the man is too busy contemplating his boots. Goggles hide eyes well, though not as well as Rorschach's mask. Still, there is an advantage. Vision is greatly improved. He can see Daniel's pupils, for instance. He can see how large they are in the absence of enough light. He can see grime on his partner's face. A spot on his cheek, a smear under his lip. In his mind, he wipes the city's filth away with one simple stroke. He imagines Daniel closing his eyes at the contact while he whispers—

"Rorschach?"

He starts. A heaviness sits in his gut. He isn't sure what it is, so he labels it 'frustration.' It's not guilt, what ever it is. Can't be guilt. He has no reason to feel—

"Have 'em yet?" Daniel says, _sotto voce_.

He has a task and a responsibility. He doesn't keep Daniel waiting.

He scans the area; the world as seen through green glass. He sees metal trashcans lining one wall, the scurrying motion of what he presumes is a rat, the inexplicable presence of a dirty and sodden sock, but he doesn't see—

And then he does. Two figures pressed together in a recess set in the brick wall. The frame of a doorway. Then he notices a tiny bright dot hovering between their heads. The source of the offending odor.

The bodies shift in subtle, upsettingly lewd rhythmic motions. He knows what perversions must lay within the pair, what compels them to behave in this disgusting manner _in public_. Flaunting their sin for all to see. There is a brick in his stomach. Must be revulsion. He is revolted.

He returns the goggles to Daniel, and before he hears them snap back into place, Daniel is off.

"All right, now. Let's take this inside," Daniel says, his words enunciated slowly and clearly, in a tone that is just a touch deeper than his normal speaking voice. His Nite Owl voice. Although, Rorschach has noticed Daniel doesn't always remember to affect it. He makes a mental note to remind his partner of the importance of consistency.

The young men—and they both were men, to Rorschach's dismay—thoughtlessly discard the marijuana cigarette to the ground. Daniel reaches to pick it off the ground, makes his way to one of the trash barrels as the two men slip wordlessly inside.

"Out of sight, out of mind, Nite Owl?" Rorschach says.

"Well, they weren't hurting anybody. And besides," he says, vaguely waving the cigarette in the air before pointedly tossing it into the trash, "I'm hardly in a position to judge."

"_It was just the one time," _Rorschach says.

"Yeah." Daniel says. Then, "Sorry."

"Thought better of you," Rorschach mutters to himself.

Daniel shrugs.

"Didn't intend for you to hear."

"I know."

Daniel turns, walks out toward the larger city street. He fumbles for his belt console. He's preparing to call the ship.

"Listen," he says. "I think we've done enough damage for one night. I don't know about you, but I'm gonna turn in."

Rorschach nods at this. He isn't sure exactly what has happened, but Daniel is… not happy. His body language is too tight, his words forced.

Daniel hasn't extended his customary invitation back for coffee, or something to eat or even to rest. It might have to do with the fact that Rorschach has declined the offer _each time_.

"I am tired," Daniel says with a small laugh. "I'll see ya."

Rorschach watches the ship ascend. He casts his eyes toward the direction of Daniel's home. Wonders if maybe he should follow.

. . .

_editted to fix typos_


	2. Chapter 2

. . .

Rorschach has never had occasion to stand before Daniel's front door. He scans the street, checking to be certain it is free from unwanted eyes before choosing the lock pick most appropriate for the job, working it until he hears the telltale release of the locking mechanism. This is not a violation. There isn't anything untoward about what he is doing now. He's been invited, after all.

He steps over the threshold, but nothing changes.

Though Rorschach has never been inside Daniel's home, he feels confident in his ability to navigate his way through it without upsetting anything, without leaving any indication of his presence if necessary. The house is still mostly dark; all the blinds and shades are drawn, fighting off the daylight until it can no longer be contained, no longer held back, until finally spilling out over carpet and furniture and everything else in the house, leaving no places, no shrouded corners or recesses for the darkness to hide. He needs to leave here before that happens, needs to find Daniel and… Needs to do what it is he came here for.

In the adjacent room, the television softly flickers, bathing the room in a gray-blue glow. There isn't any sound coming from the room, the volume to the television set is too low for that. He doesn't immediately have an explanation; he isn't sure why the television would still be on if—

Then he spots why.

Daniel has fallen asleep on the sofa.

A pair of eyeglasses sit folded neatly on the nearby coffee table. He notices something yellow crumpled innocently on the floor. Are they—

They are. Daniel's Nite Owl goggles. Rorschach's fist tightens. This is yet another instance of Daniel's inability to keep his lives separate. He knows it shouldn't bother him as much as it does, this sort of erosive thing seems to suit Daniel well enough, but he can't help but find it wearing.

He moves to lift them from the floor, places them on the table next to Daniel's other set of eyewear.

"Rorschach, that you?" Daniel mumbles softly. Daniel shifts, and Rorschach freezes. He's been caught. He has no reason to feel shame or guilt, only came here to—

Daniel nods slightly, his mouth quirks in an odd way. He seems to find something amusing. "M'kay," he mutters, before nestling his nose further into his pillow.

Daniel is still asleep.

The sun has breached the horizon; he can no longer justify his presence here. Rorschach removes his mask, takes a deep breath, and slips out of the house the way he came.

. . . Walter Kovacs hates his job. It is repetitive and requires little thought and even less skill. It pays the rent, if barely, but he does appreciate it. He appreciates the way in which it slots him into the role of 'productive citizen.' He appreciates it for the cover it provides, permits him to hide in plain sight. He might hate it, but he wouldn't trade it for anything. Not now, anyway. And when the repetitive nature of the work makes his mind wander—and it does, more often than he would like to admit—he knows how to turn this distraction into an asset. Knows how to tune out all the noise to plan and prepare for the work in which is best suited for the cover of darkness. He turns on his machine, and measures out his day piece by piece.

. . . They meet outside a derelict warehouse. They are operating on a tip, one of Daniel's; Rorschach isn't sure how he consistently acquires reliable information without compromise, and yet this is bust number three as provided by Daniel's 'source.' The perps have not yet arrived to claim their shipment of poison, wealthy businessmen and not low drug pushers, selling narcotics in that most insidious way; creating a vicious cycle of addiction and need while profiting from their greed. Rorschach would gladly break each and everyone of them. Disposal is the next best thing.

The unopened crates sit unmarked and unguarded. Daniel motions with his hand, and they are off.

It's quick work depositing the shrink-wrapped bricks into the murky water, quicker than Rorschach anticipated. Neither man has spoken two words for the duration; it's been all business.

Rorschach breaks the silence first.

He tosses the final brick to Daniel. Says, "I hope you are not planning on taking any home."

Daniel does not respond right away, makes a show of dropping the block into the water instead. After what feels like several minutes says, "Ha ha, Rorschach," though it's clear he does not find it especially amusing. "Okay, that's the last of it," he says. "We can call it night now, or do a final sweep through a couple blocks? If you want, I mean I don't really mind either way."

"What is the time," Rorschach says, though it's more demand than question.

"Uh, a quarter to four. Why?"

Rorschach thinks of the previous night, of its confessions and transgressions. "Have some things I wish to discuss."

"Oh, god. Okay, yeah."

. . . They do not speak during the short flight back to Daniel's. Rorschach begins to wonder just why it is Daniel has not been his usual loquacious self. Once safely docked, Daniel instructs Rorschach to vacate the ship non-verbally, a button-push to open the side door followed by a quick jerk of the head. Rorschach nods in acknowledgement, shoves his fists into his pockets and walks out.

The ship's door releases a pneumatic _hiss_ before slamming shut. Rorschach, for a brief instant, wonders if Daniel would ever leave him behind.

Moments later, the door re-opens, and a plain-clothed Daniel—t-shirt and _bellbottoms_, to his chagrin—emerges. He fights off the image of the young men in the alley, all hedonism and without shame. They wore bellbottoms. Daniel confessed, he…is not like them, is not…

Daniel tosses Rorschach a pointed glare before making his way toward his locker to put his uniform away for the evening.

Upstairs, Daniel prepares coffee. Rorschach does not sit at the table. Instead, he hovers by the door as if expecting the need for a quick escape. He doesn't feel comfortable, here inside Daniel's home. Though it isn't lost on him that it wasn't so many hours before he himself was the transgressor…

Daniel sets a mug on the table, closest to where Rorschach stands.

"Well?" Daniel asks. His voice cracks. He's never masked his emotions well.

Daniel is holding his breath. Rorschach wonders if he is even aware.

"I… I simply wish to offer my apologies."

"For?"

He will allow Daniel to believe his apology is for whatever it is he feels necessary. For his part, Rorschach is no position to judge. It was only the one time.

He offers his hand and the two men shake.

. . .

Dawn will be here soon. Under his mask, Rorschach narrows his eyes.

. . .


End file.
